tantrum

Last week I wrote about the dangers one encounters on a trip to the Tropics. This week I to thinking about another trip we took — Out West, this was, years ago when The Child was about two — and those Bullet Ants started sounding downright cuddly. Because there’s nothing quite as dangerous as a Toddler Tantrum on a road trip.

Yes, still Before Road Trip, we hang out with The Dude’s Aunt Elsa, who had the Toddler Touch, even on a trip to the children’s zoo

It all started when we flew out to Arizona for one of The Dude’s Doctor Meetings. (You can read about another childlike meltdown on another of these Doctor Meetings in “Let me go; I want my mommy!” Why, oh why, did we do this kind of thing — and more than once?)

We used the end of the meeting as the start of a Road Trip, which is (still) our favorite kind of vacation. (Of course, most of the time we’ve gone on a Road Trip, it’s been sans toddler.) I’ll spare you most details, but suffice it to say that, by and large, it was a success. We drove across Death Valley, we visited Lake Tahoe, we went to a ghost town that used to be an old mining camp.

The Child and The Dude, with friendly local, by the side of the road in the Ghost Town

At the start of the trip we even visited The Dude’s college roomie who was living in Kingman, Arizona. This was the same time that Timothy McVeigh was living there. Though, since he (McVeigh, not the roomie) hadn’t done his Oklahoma City bombing deeds yet, we were blissfully unaware of this.

The Child and I, by the side of a road. But not the road where we left her

Speaking of blissful, so far so good with the Road Trip, toddler and all. Oh, we’d had a few hiccups. There were a few stretches where I had to sing “If I Only Had A Brain” from The Wizard of Oz on pretty much endless repeat. (God forbid I cheat and hum a few bars; “Mommy, SING! No dah-dah-dah-dah dah!!!“)

The Child and I, by the side of (yup) a road. But not that road

Oh — before I forget. We had received a Christmas Card from the roomie, which was a favorite of The Child’s that year. It was bright and sparkly and had a vividly colored portrait of The Madonna on the front. We told her it was from Dad’s friend Don Casey, whereupon she’d point at it and say “Don Casey…Don Casey!” (Hi, Don!) You should have seen the look on her face when we introduced her to “Don Casey”. He didn’t have gorgeous robes, much less a halo.

The Child meets the roomie who is decidedly non-Madonna-like

But somewhere, around the third day, I think it was, The Child just sort of hit the wall, road-trip-wise. We were out in the middle of nowhere, about to visit an ancient pueblo, when she just sort of snapped. There was wailing, there was screaming, there was the dreaded Stiff-As-A-Board Thing. We tried food, we tried water, we tried the endless-singing-of-the-Scarecrow-Song. Nothing worked. And since we’d driven quite a long way to see that darned pueblo, well, we were gonna see that darned pueblo.

The Dude, in the act of leaving The Child by the side of the road (er, path)

So, yup. We left her. Right there by the side of the road. Well, er, pueblo path. And The Dude and I climbed right on up and checked that pueblo out. Of course, we could see the bright-red-parka’d Child at all times. We could even see when her mouth finally closed, indicating that the screaming had ceased and that it was safe to go back and collect her. Which, of course, we did.

All’s well that ends well, pueblo-and-tantrum-wise

The Child, of course, survived to tell the tale. Well, actually, she was too little and does not remember, so I get to tell the tale instead. But she ended up none the worse for wear, as you can see by this somewhat-recent Road-Trip-Without-Us photo.

The Child by the side of a road in Iceland. Where no one left her, not even for a second